Darkness Comes Easy
by SlyStrukk
Summary: Who was Tom Riddle, again? Only the Dark Lord knows... Dark secrets are just waiting to be revealed, changing the lives of those affected. An epic filled with a dark Harry, demonic spirits, and a new definition of evil awaits. HP/DM Rewritten and revamped
1. Discussions With Yourself

**Author**: Angeleus

**Fandom**: Harry Potter  
**  
Rating**: R (Adult)

**Genre**: Romance, Drama, Angst, H/C

**Pairing**: Harry/Draco

**Warnings**: Language, Anal, Explicit Torture, Disturbing imagery.

**Summary**: Who was Tom Riddle, again? Only the Dark Lord knows... Dark secrets are just waiting to be revealed, changing the lives of those affected. An epic filled with a dark Harry, demonic spirits, and a new definition of evil awaits. HP/DM Rewritten and revamped

**Author's Note:** Revision, Revision, Revision! Hopefully I'll be able to breathe some life into this story and give it some well needed TLC. I've made this way longer, and added a lot more detail. I think my writing style has matured a bit and this story will spruce up. Thanks to everyone who stayed with this story, I LOVE YOU GUYS!

**Chapter One:** Discussions With Yourself

There comes a time in every young adult's life when they have a realization of sorts. It forever changes the way that person looks at the world, or even themselves. Maybe it's about the way they act, or the things they do, or even the people they surround themselves with. Harry Potter, not being a normal teen, thought about all these things.

Before the Third Task, he'd never really thought of how the world saw him. Hell, he hadn't even thought of how _he_ saw himself. But Harry found that seeing your fellow Hogwarts classmate get killed in front of your eyes by one of the most feared Dark Lords ever known tended to give you a bit of insight.

Harry could remember every second of hell after the death of Cedric Diggory. Every accusing word that was sent his way. Every set of eyes that asked _'If you could save so many others, why couldn't you save Cedric?' _Of course, his personal favorite were the whispers that followed him now, all of them having something to do with what people thought_ really_ happened in that graveyard.

The fools had no idea.

He'd never really noticed how someone could be held on a high pedestal but as soon as a mistake was made, how fast that pedestal could crumble and send that person crashing to the ground.

Everyone knew the story of the Boy-Who-Lived, but did they know the story of Harry Potter?

Did they know how Harry Potter wished he had taken that trip to the graveyard alone? Did they know Harry Potter would have given anything to be normal? Or that Harry Potter would give up every ounce of fame he had, just to be able to see his parents again?

Not even Ron, Harry's best friend, truly knew him. He thought he could trust Ron, but how can you trust someone who doesn't even believe that your words are true? How can you be friends with someone when they think you are nothing more than an attention seeker?

The entire year, Harry tried to put these insidious ponderings behind him, but as he stared out of the Dursley's window, he found there was nothing to do but think about things he'd rather ignore.

And Hermione. The only friend who had never left his side, right? Smart, dependable, kind – all qualities Harry would have used to describe her just a few weeks ago. But now, Harry could easily see that these things simply weren't true. Perhaps that was why he'd never looked at their friendship to closely – he had been far too fearful of what he might find hiding behind the façade of loyalty.

All the instances that Hermione had 'never left his side,' he could now see that she had simply been playing the part of some nefarious mediator. She never truly agreed with him with him, nor did she ever say that his anger towards those who hurt him was righteous. Rather she had told him to '_look at things form Ron's point of view'_ because she secretly concurred with his sentiments.

Thinking back to all the times Ron and Hermione had talked while glancing at him subtly or how a conversation would abruptly end when he walked into a room, Harry wondered why he hadn't seen it sooner.

Harry briefly wonder why Ron and Hermione even bothered with him, but the answer came soon enough. The fame. Each one of them had there own private agendas.

Ron, who had constantly been overshadowed by his brothers, obsessively looked for something that he could do to make him stand out. Something that would make his mother more proud of him than she had ever been of her other sons. Quidditch captain, prefect, Head Boy, beloved pranksters… those things had already been done.

But Ron found something that could make him stand out better then all of those combined. He was the best friend of The Harry Potter… no one in is family had ever been in company of a _celebrity_ before. He decided to play the part of hero, chasing after Harry into dangerous situations, hoping his peers would be awed by his daring courage.

This plan backfired on Ron; Harry could clearly see that now. Instead of being put in the spotlight, he was pushed to the backburner. When he signed on to be the best friend of Harry Potter, Ron forgot to read the fine print: the spotlight was reserved for Harry Potter only, not fickle glory seekers.

Screw Ron and his bloody spotlight – Harry would give him all of his recognition if he could.

It took him time to figure out how Hermione could profit from his 'celebrity status.' But her fringe benefits were found in the very books she religiously studied. A lone, muggleborn girl, no matter how intelligent, could do little to impress the purebloods around her with her mental prowess. Many Ravenclaws in Hogwarts wrote just as well, knew just as much, and performed even better on practical examinations, but Hermione was always given that extra point, that little push because she _was best friends with Harry Potter._ While it wasn't fair that Hermione faced adversity because of her heritage, it gave her no right to manipulate him to get recognized. Harry laughed bitterly. How very like Hermione to think of her grades above all else.

As Harry's mind got on the subject of Dumbledore, he felt his heart constrict painfully. The man he considered his mentor had only kept him soothed, complacent, and stupid – ready to defend beliefs that he hadn't been even old enough to understand.

Dumbledore, who he had trusted above all others, was no better – he was only using Harry as a tool. It was a hard potion to swallow, but one Harry had to stomach reluctantly; the headmaster was a true maestro at manipulation. Why else would Dumbledore constantly put Harry in positions where he could get himself killed if not to test him, to make sure that he was easy to control?

Dumbledore had to have known about Quirrel. How could Dumbledore not notice that a member of his staff had the Dark Lord stuck to the back of his head? As for the Chamber of Secrets, Dumbledore couldn't find it himself, so who better to find it for him than Harry – a little boy who he'd slowly been teaching that the world rested on his shoulders?

Harry now had this sick, twisted feeling that Dumbledore had known all along that his godfather was innocent. It made him sick to even contemplate how someone could send an innocent man to Azkaban with little regret.

And poor Professor Lupin, Dumbledore held so much power over him because he was one of the only people in the Wizarding World who would hire or even support a known werewolf. Life for the former educator was already difficult, and it made Harry shudder to think what would happen if someone with Dumbledore's influence decided to speak out against werewolf rights. If Remus ever did something Dumbledore didn't approve of…

Clearly Harry wasn't the only pawn on the chessboard.

Even worse, Harry couldn't believe how much he'd allowed Dumbledore to influence his perception of the world. Dumbledore had taught him to shy away from the unknown, to harbor dangerous prejudices, to not have an original thought of his own. Were _all_ Slytherins evil and conniving Death Eaters to be? Why were they condemned for being cunning and ambitious, as these are often the traits of world leaders?

While Harry had to admit that he hadn't had the best relations with the Slytherins in his year, Harry doubted that all of them were incorrigible. No one would truly admit that Hogwarts was not the fair school it boasted itself to be; at best it was comically biased.

There was the brave house, the loyal house, the smart house, and the house of all things evil, disgusting, rotten, unholy, and dark? Yes, that made a _load_ of sense.

As disgusted as he was to admit it, Malfoy had been right, the prick. He had been Dumbledore's faithful little pet, content with the occasion pat on the head for a job well done.

Who really wants to be a hero? Who really wants to have everyone's faith resting on their shoulders when they can barely pass potions, let alone defeat a Dark Lord? If there were any such people in the world Harry would like to meet them, if only to tell them what ignorant fools they were. And give then a sound knock on the head.

He was done. He was done modeling his behavior off of ideals that weren't his own. He was done being Dumbledore lap dog and the Wizarding World's doormat. No more Golden Boy. No more Boy-Who-Lived-To-Be-An-Idiot. No more hiding behind a cracking mask of innocent naïveté. Harry wasn't concerned with being anyone's savior but his own.

And so our tale begins.

**xXxXxXx**

Family, familia,familie, **keluarga,** **shuzoku, there was a word for it in every language. The p**eople who cared for you, loved you unconditionally, and wanted nothing more for you than your own happiness.

At least, that was the common misconception associated with the term.

From his experience, Draco knew that familial bonds were nothing more than chains of servitude and pain, of obligation and fear.

If family was truly associated with emotions such as love, then why did his father hold him in nothing more than cold regard, and his mother treat him to constant distain. If family was supposed to care for your happiness, then why would his father be content to sell him to a half human monster, not caring if he truly desired to carry on the family business of murder and mayhem?

His father constantly attempting to mold Draco into a miniaturized version of himself, using beatings and whatever other measures he could prove that if the ideal family exists, then it certainly can't be found within the Malfoy household.

It was a small wonder that, reared in such an environment, Draco was known as less than cuddly to the general public.

Of course, everyone thought they had the right to judge his every action and error. It's easier to blame people for things they can't control when looking at the world through rose-tinted glasses. It's easier to ignore a person in pain and allow them to suffer rather than risk getting one's hands dirty trying to 'the right thing.'

Or at least that's the principle they often lived by.

The righteous, self serving _Light_ side that was more often than not filled with impulsive Gryffindors that harbored idiotic, nonsensical prejudices.

Did anyone deserve to be hated for being brought up the way they were, for not having the power to choose their parents? Logic would suggest no, but an impressive amount of people look at him in disgust for having a Death Eater father (although no one could prove this claim). As if he had branded the bloody Mark on Lucius.

And then the way they gossiped about him was contemptible… as soon as he turned his back as if he were some disgusting creature that couldn't understand what they were saying. It was Slytherin 101 to make sure your enemies were out of cursing distance before saying things like, 'All Malfoys should be drowned after birth – or better yet, aborted!'

He faintly recalled be five years old, following behind his father to a social gathering at the Ministry of Magic, trying to be _good_ so his father wouldn't hit him when he Floo'd back to the Manor. It was one of the first times that Draco could remember being around such a large amount of people, and he had been more than a little frightened. Draco quickly learned that Malfoys are only welcome to such gatherings because of their money and social standing, not because anyone actually wanted them there. He heard the whispers 'He'll be just like his father, that one!' or 'He's a junior Death Eater, I'll bet… I wouldn't be surprised if he's already been taught the Unforgivables!'

Draco didn't know of many children who could AK someone at the tender age of five, so he wasn't sure how the fools came upon than brilliant deduction. If they honestly believed he was being trained to kill people as a small child, then why didn't any of the good and righteous members of high society take him in instead of leaving him with someone that everyone knew was a murdering bastard. Oh, yes, that's right. Because merely being born with Malfoy blood was enough to make him monstrously evil.

Didn't exactly give him a chance to prove them wrong, now did they? And they said that pureblood loyalists were unreasonable.

Draco shook his head and tried to think of less _depressing_ things but found that happy thoughts of rainbows and fluffy puppies were hard to come by. Maybe it was because the black hole that had existed inside of him since birth seemed to be sucking up any positive feelings he had. Not that there were many to begin with.

He looked at his mostly unmarred left arm – only a few bruises and cuts (thanks to his dear father). He would do nearly anything to keep it that way. Draco, unlike his father and mother, refused to submit to the Dark Lord and saw the Mark for what it truly was – slavery.

As bold as these declarations were, he also knew that before the end of the summer, Voldemort would call him to serve. When he refused, and refuse he would, he would be tortured and killed.

So ends the rather tiresome existence of Draco Malfoy.

He laughed, slightly surprised by how bitter he sounded. Barely though. He'd always known that he would never become like his father, that he would never be able to become another expendable servant of a mad man. He'd just never expected the Dark Lord to regain power so soon.

He'd been almost positive that Dumbledore would stop at nothing to make sure that Voldemort never came back any time in his life. After all, it wouldn't do well for someone to challenge his power over the Wizarding World, now would it?

Draco walked up to his large mirror and stared at himself, not liking at all what he saw in its depths. The way his silver eyes tinted slightly with fear disgusted him, but it was what he feared that caused him to be appalled. He wasn't afraid to die, no, it was quite the contrary.

He was scared of what would happen next. Draco was well aware that he was at a crossroads; the decisions he made know would affect him for the rest of his life, however short it may be.

There were only two options really. He could stay in Malfoy Manor and await his death like a good little coward, waiting in terror for the day his father would announce the Dark Lord wanted an audience with him.

Not very appetizing, to be honest.

Or he could find a way to escape the near prison of his home and oppose Lord Voldemort's idiotic and dangerous goals with the cunning and power he had be gifted with from birth. There was really no choice, as Draco would always choose life over death.

But it was also true that it would be impossible to oppose the Dark Lord and all his minions unaided. For his 'plan' to work, he would need allies – and not just any fool. He would need others as powerful and able as himself. He would need to find at least one person that didn't have a master, someone that wasn't under the thumb of Voldemort, Dumbledore, or the Ministry. People Draco could see as his equals; unlike Voldemort, he didn't want a bunch of inbred fools who couldn't tell their wand from their arsehole.

Unfortunately, not one of his school mates seemed even worth consideration. Raking through his memories, he tried to recall someone who would fit these qualifications.

"There's no one." Draco said, startling himself by speaking out loud. He wasn't dim; he knew that if he didn't figure out what he was going to do soon, he would be dead by the end of the month. _If only there was someone, anyone who thought as I did…_

**xXxXxXx**

Harry sighed as his aunt screeched for him to get out of the bathroom; it wouldn't do for him to use up the hot water before her precious 'Dudders' took his hour long shower. What a wanker – literally. He winced slighted as she yelled once more. Honestly, how someone so repelled by magic could sound so much like a banshee was beyond him.

"I'm almost done," Harry yelled as he shut off the water and quickly toweled himself dry.

Dressing quickly in a pair of jeans much too large for him and a slightly fitting black shirt, Harry all but ran down the stairs, not wanting to anger his aunt even further.

"What were you doing? What took you so long?" Petunia asked in a scathing tone as Dudley snickered and gobbled down more bacon, not caring that he was getting grease stains on his pajamas. Uncle Vernon actually took the time to give him a suspicious glare before disappearing back behind his newspaper.

Harry almost felt touched.

"I was taking a shower."

Petunia gave him a slightly confused look and said blankly, "A shower?"

Harry rolled his eyes in exasperation. He didn't understand why it was so difficult to comprehend that he might actually care about his personal hygiene. "Yes, a shower. You know – the thing with the water and soap?" After coming to so many realizations the night before, he was irate and unable to deal with the Dursleys with his usual calm.

Harry, did however, instantly regret that comment as soon as it had left his mouth. _Guess I won't be having breakfast today after all. _He was just grateful that he'd decided to buy so many pastries on the train… although he'd only gotten them because Ron claimed he was dying of hunger – but that wasn't a road he wanted to go down.

Glancing up to see how much damage he'd done, Harry was surprised to see his aunt looked oddly calm – usually she'd be waving her arms and shrieking if Harry said something like that.

He didn't even see the slap coming.

Harry staggered slightly, more out of shock than the force of the blow. It was true that his relatives were less than pleasant, and Uncle Vernon had been known to make threatening gestures in his general direction – but no one except for Dudley had ever outright hit him!

Vernon once again spared a look over his paper. Grinning nastily, he smirked, "Should have seen that one coming boy, good one Petunia dear."

Dudley merely plastered a smile on his stupid mouth while continuing to stuff his face with food.

Suddenly, a cold fury washed over him as he turned his deep green eyes towards Petunia, who was looking rather proud of herself. Harry knew he should try and keep his temper in check but couldn't. This was the first time that – that, _woman_ had ever hit him; he'd make sure it was the last.

Whipping out his wand and pointing it directly at Petunia's neck, Harry finally managed to say something. "Don't you – don't you ever touch me!"

Her eyes widened as she realized how big of a mistake she'd just made. "Vernon!"

Both male Dursleys looked up, shocked at the scene before them. Dudley tried to get up and run but Harry pointed his wand at the fat boy's belly. He was more than tired of being treated like some subhuman monster by the people who should love him. Harry was settling this now. "Sit down. All of you. Now!"

Wailing annoyingly in fright, Dudley sat back at the table, hands lingering protectively over his bottom. Petunia sat down next to her son, the cried out to her husband, "Don't let him hurt my baby!"

Vernon stood up, emboldened by his wife's panic. "Now wait just one bloody second! How dare you-"

"Shut up! Shut up and sit down before I curse you stupider than you already are!"

Vernon's mustache twitched nervously. "You wouldn't do that, you get expelled from that ridiculous school of yours."

"Try me." Harry snarled out.

Vernon looked as if he were about to call Harry's bluff but one look into his nephew's eyes and he turned a sickly color before sitting down.

Harry almost smirked at the wide, fearful looks he was getting – this was far too long overdue. "This ends now. I'm tired of being treated like trash when it's obvious the only trash here is you – "

Dudley wailed softly and Harry glared at him as bright blue sparks jet out of his wand.

"Shut your mouth Dudley or I swear to Merlin…" The porky boy quieted instantly even though he looked as if he might implode. "I'm not going to be your whipping boy anymore! The next time you do something that remotely ticks me off, I'll turn you both into chocolate bars and force feed you to your overly obese son. And after that I'll turned Dudley into bacon, since he seems to like it so much." He wasn't going to tell them that his Transfiguration skills were no where near as developed as he would need them to be to pull of that threat.

Giving each one of them his best death stare, he ended with, "If you don't like this new arrangement then you can all go to Hades, I assure you I won't mind." Grabbing himself a handful of bacon, Harry walked back upstairs to his room.

That had been – empowering; Harry felt relieved that he didn't have to worry about them pushing him around any longer. As he lay on the bed for the next few hours, he heard the Dursleys running up and down the stairs, accompanied by the sounds of furniture being moved. Only mildly interested what they were doing, Harry fell asleep and didn't wake until the next morning.

As he stretched, happy not to be woken up by an impatient and bad-tempered Petunia, he walked and opened the bed room door. Peering down the stairwell as he walked, Harry felt odd, as if something was missing. It was then that he noticed the revolting pictures of Dudley were no longer lining the hallway, and the usual smell of badly cooked bacon was absent.

Harry shrugged – perhaps they'd gone somewhere for the day; he could only be so lucky. But some sense of wrongness stayed with him until he was standing in the living room. It took a moment for his mind to catch up to what his eyes were seeing.

While the basic furniture, such as the couch, loveseat, and coffee table remained, all the personal effects were gone. The room somehow looked empty.

Shaking his head in confusion, Harry walked to the kitchen – it was even more empty; with all the smaller appliances removed. He systematically opened the drawers, already knowing that they would be barren. Finally, he stood in front of the refrigerator, preparing himself – but he was still stunned to see that he was unfilled; nothing remained, not even the leftovers from the day before.

This didn't make any sense – what in the hell was going on? Harry quickly sprinted to the top of the stairs, feeling more and more desperate when he saw that Dudley's room contained nothing but a stripped bed. He finally managed to calm himself by thinking about how ridiculous he was acting.

So what if the Dursleys had left? He could take care of himself – right?

**TBC**


	2. Families and Their Many Faults

**Author**: Angeleus

**Fandom**: Harry Potter  
**  
Rating**: R (Adult)

**Genre**: Romance, Drama, Angst, H/C

**Pairing**: Harry/Draco

**Warnings**: Language, Anal, Explicit Torture, Disturbing imagery.

**Summary**: Who was Tom Riddle, again? Only the Dark Lord knows... Dark secrets are just waiting to be revealed, changing the lives of those affected. An epic filled with a dark Harry, demonic spirits, and a new definition of evil awaits. HP/DM Rewritten and revamped

**Author's Note:** I didn't get much response on the last chapter, but hopefully that's because most of you have already read the story and approve of the changes I've made. At least I hope so. -_- So, on to the next chapter!

**Chapter Two**: Families and Their Many Faults

Draco was still contemplating how to plan his 'daring escape' when the first sliver of sunlight penetrated through the dark drapes of his bed. He'd been up all night, but that wasn't exactly unusual for him – the situation was making him quite the insomniac.

Of course, anyone living in a place such as Malfoy Manor wouldn't get much sleep either. A cold frigid air permeated from the place even in summer; it was a side effect of all the Dark Magick done on the premises. Surrounded by the jagged looking cliffs of the Dark Forest, it gave off an air of menace that even the merriest of men couldn't escape – of course, depression was also known as a side effect of prolonged exposure Dark Magick.

Go figure.

The Dark Forest itself was known for its nightmarish creatures (lethifolds, manticores, hellhounds, and werewolves to name a few) and foreboding atmosphere which made it the perfect place for a veritable fortress of Darkness. Or at least Draco's ancestors, who had built it hundreds of years ago, had thought so. The Manor, a monstrosity of stone and mortar, was Unplottable along with having many other enchantments that warded against unapproved entry.

On the inside, the halls were nearly swarming with Death Eaters during most hours of the day as it _was_ a base of all the Dark Lord's activity. When the sun went down, it was only empty when a Dark Revel or some other sort of meeting wasn't going on. In other words, the most dangerous witches and wizards of the Magical World prowled the corridors of Draco's home.

During these nights Dementors (who the Ministry still refused to see as a danger or eminent threat) and other sinister creatures guarded the hallway outside of Draco's rooms. On most other nights Draco knew better than to leave his rooms; Voldemort was often in the Manor and he didn't want to be pushed into an impromptu initiation by bumping into the madman.

Draco sighed and made his way toward his wardrobe; if he wasn't at breakfast 7:30 sharp there would be hell to pay. As he opened the door to his closet, he once again surveyed himself in the mirror. He looked terrible honestly; Draco had lost weight and his blonde hair lay limp on his shoulders. After selecting what he would wear for the day, Draco began to make his way to the bathroom. Stripping off his clothes and stepping into the shower he felt resolved – this was a new day and he would figure out something.

The sensation of warm water rushing over his tired body cleared his thoughts and suddenly the answer to his problems became blatantly obvious.

Why hadn't he thought of it before?

Draco needed to investigate the others students at Hogwarts to determine which ones, if any at all, would make suitable allies. It would be virtually impossible – plus incredibly stupid – to contact any classmates without studying how to approach them or knowing if it was safe to even do so. His father, however, had files on all of the students from his days of being a school governor. Getting a hold of them would be essential.

Buthis father kept a strict guard over them. The only way to get them would be to convince his father that he needed them.

If only that were as easy as it sounds.

**xXxXxXx**

Gone…

He couldn't believe that they'd actually left the house, seemingly with no intention of coming back (at least until he left) – it was insane!

After searching the house thoroughly, Harry found a small note on a lamp post in the hallway. The paper was wrinkle and it was obvious that the note had been scribbled hastily. All it said was:

'Potter,

All the utilities are paid for the summer. Don't follow us.'

The note, of course, was unsigned.

As much as he hated to admit it, he was a bit unsure of what he should do. As horrible as the Dursleys were to him, they had always been _there._ They were one of the few things that had stayed constant in his life; he always knew that they would make his life hell during the summers while waiting eagerly for him to leave. Now that this routine had been altered, Harry was left feeling more than a little lost.

He thought of sending a letter to his'friends'but that was out of the question. They wouldn't let him stay at Number Four and he didn't feel like being subjected to their stupidity and manipulation for the entire vacation. It was only two weeks into summer, after all.

He could see it now: Ron would attempt to monopolize all of his time with meaningless conversations about quidditch and continually whine about how unfair it was to be the youngest brother in his family. Hermione would urge him to complete his summer assignments while peaking over his shoulder to make sure he didn't do as well as her. In the midst of all this Ron and Hermione would be at war with each other, arguing about anything and everything that didn't matter.

No, that was certainly out of the question.

For one brief moment, Harry entertained the idea of leaving Privet Drive for the break, but it wouldn't be possible. He was almost positive that there were wards around the house that would inform Dumbledore if he left the premises for more than a day or two at a time.

Harry supposed he would have to take this one day at a time. He obviously didn't have to worry about paying the Dursleys' bills, but he would need money for food. That meant that a trip to Gringotts was in order.

But getting there would be a challenge – perhaps he could call a taxi to take him to the Leaky Cauldron? Or maybe he could – of course, the Night Bus! Changing quickly and prepared to walk out of the door, when he happened to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror and surveyed his clothes in disgust. He was wearing a large, faded red tee with an old grease stain on the collar and baggy jeans that were slightly too short for him with large holes over the knees.

Being near Ron, who also looked rather shabby, Harry had never really paid much attention to how he dressed. It was unbelievable that he never noticed how ridiculous he looked in his cousin's hand-me-downs, Dudley being much larger and a bit shorter than him. Now he realized that he looked like something that had been dragged out of an alley. It was no wonder that people treated him like pathetic child who didn't know right from wrong – he looked like a little kid playing dress up.

Promising that he would buy a new wardrobe for himself as soon as he had the chance, Harry started to walk out the door. Then he realized that people would be able to recognize him immediately – the name Harry Potter was synonymous with a teenaged boy with messy hair, terrible clothing, and a lightning bolt scar. It wouldn't be prudent for Voldemort to show up in the middle of Diagon Alley because some enterprising Death Eater wannabe informed their master. Walking swiftly up the stairs and grabbing a cloak, Harry lifted the hood over his head as he left Number Four Privet Drive.

A few moments later, Harry was cursing the fact that he'd picked a winter cloak to put on, but didn't feel like going through the trouble of getting another one. It was about eighty degrees outside and he feared that if he didn't summon the Night Bus soon, he would pass out from the heat alone. He could see the headline: The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Get-A-Heatstroke by Rita Skeeter.

Sticking out his wand, Harry wasn't disappointed when he heard the initial 'bang' as a large bus seemed to materialize in front of him. Stepping inside, Harry was immediately greeted by a young man. "Welcome to the Night Bus, David Sommars at your service. The fee is twelve sickles, but it's extra for-"

Pulling the cloak around himself to make sure he was fully hidden, Harry shoved the sickles in the older boy's hand before climbing aboard.

Momentarily stunned by Harry's rudeness, the late teen (whom Harry noticed had a blemish free face unlike Stan) stood outside the bus until the driver called him in while Harry found an empty bed to lay, sighing as he relaxed for the first time today.

He'd decided to be calloused as possible with others during the outing and to avoid talking unless it was absolutely necessary, especially in Diagon Alley. Harry knew himself to well enough than to trust his mouth – his deception skills weren't up to where they needed to be and Harry didn't want to accidentally give away his identity. And even though he felt a little guilty after seeing the hurt look on David's face, he reckoned the guy would get over it soon enough.

Pulling his hood down further as a woman who had just gotten on the bus ( and who looked like a yeti in bad disguise) looked at him intently, he couldn't help but wonder what the Dursley's were doing at that exact moment. Perhaps they were celebrating that they didn't have do deal with their freakish relative any longer.

He hoped they had a bloody good vacation.

**xXxXxXx**

The complete formality of the meal was quite uncalled for; in fact, it was almost comical in its dramatics. They sat at a long table that extended across a room that could easily have fit over fifty people. Only three people sat at the table. Draco was sure there was a smaller, less ornate table than the wood and metal monstrosity that he was forced to sit at.

Of course he would never tell Lucius that, he could imagine his father's reaction. Lucius' face would remain calm, but the bulging vein on his forehead would promise pain. Then his father would lash out swiftly, probably with some agonizing spell. His father was quite protective of his overbearing, stuffy traditions.

Narcissa, always annoyingly glamorous, was wearing a silvery robe covered not so tastefully in pearl and golden sequence. His mother had dubious tastes in fashion – he was forcefully reminded of that monstrosity of a dress robe she forced him to wear during Tri-Wizard's Ball.

Today her blonde long hair flowed freely somewhere around her waist accentuating her pale delicate features. Draco fought back a grimace; he was well aware that most of his features came from her. He hated being associated with her even in that respect, despite the fact that his mother was stunning. He was well aware that the only reason she had given birth to him was because it was part of her duties as a Malfoy wife. It was fairly obvious that all she'd ever seen him as was an ends to justify a mean.

Narcissa's numerous jewelry pieces jingled as she daintily lifted the fork to her redden mouth. Never mind the fact that it was seven forty-three in the morning, and most people hadn't even gotten up to eat breakfast yet. She always had to look her best.

Sitting there at the table, she looked deceptively frail and prettily innocent – but her looks belied her true nature. She was blonde, beautiful, deadly… and a complete bitch.

Lucius, who had yet to say a word, sat opposite to Draco with his cane glimmering threateningly at his side. He had always thought it was a bit melodramatic to have an unneeded cane, but Draco soon realized that it was no ordinary cane. Aside from having several protection charms and other enchantments on it, he found that it was something rather painful to be hit with. Draco almost reached up to rub at his head as a fathom pain laced through it.

"Draco, you have yet to touch your food. Something's not troubling you… is it?" Lucius said silkily as he swept a lock of hair from his face and peered at Draco imperiously. He despised the way that his father looked at him, like some kind of little pet that needed to do what he was told.

As if he cared what the bastard really thought.

Hoping that this didn't blow up in his face, Draco put his plan into action. "Father… as a matter of fact, I have been troubled by something as of late. I have something to ask of you."

This got Narcissa's attention as her head snapped up and she stared at Draco curiously. "What exactly are you asking for, boy? Your father has a very demanding job and he doesn't have time to indulge one of your childish whims." _And what job was that exactly, following after the Dark Lord like some sick sycophant?_

Staring at his mother coldly, Draco forced himself not to say anything, knowing she would twist any words that came out of his mouth. The only time he'd ever tried to defend himself in front of her had been when he was young. It had been a long time since he'd been a child. If anyone in the room was a child, it was her. Even though she was twenty years his senior, she let herself believe every lie that came out of Voldemort's and her husband's mouth.

She had idiotic visions of grandeur and prestige, when Voldemort would only lead her to destruction, imprisonment, and/or death. He didn't bother trying to enlighten her; she deserved everything she got as far as he was concerned.

"Actually, _Mother_ it has something to do with the gift I will be given before this month ends. Being inducted into the Dark Lord's services."

Draco stared into his father's frightening azure eyes, forcing himself not to back down. Sometimes he wondered if his father was truly mad, when he took a look into his eyes and saw the death that lurked there. When he saw the evil in his soul that was unmatched except for by the Dark Lord himself.

"You may continue, Draco."

"I realize Father… that once I go back to Hogwarts things will be more different than they have ever been. Everyone knows that our family supports the Dark Lord – that I do… But once I get the Mark, I will become the Light's sworn enemy, someone that they won't hesitate to kill if I am found to be sporting my Master's sign.

Hogwarts is on enemy ground… I realized this as I walked down its halls this past year. I have to understand the enemy, better than I ever had before. At least, if I want to live and better serve my Lord. It is for this reason that I request access to the files on the students that you have from your days as a governor."

Raising a pale eyebrow in amusement, Lucius replied, "How do you know that I still have those files? After I was… _released_ from my duties to the school, surely you don't think they would allow me to keep that information. Especially under the special circumstances. And even if I had the files, how would they be use to you?"

Knowing that he was treading on dangerous ground, Draco chose his words carefully. "I know you well enough, Father, to know that you kept those files. Even after you were removed from the governor's committee, everyone was still fairly intimidated by you. I'm almost positive that they didn't ask for the files back; they were far too concerned that you would lash out at them and their families and wanted to stay clear of your wrath.

Those files are useful to me because they contain personal information about the students. With that type of information, I could point out the weaknesses of my enemies and exploit them to my own advantage. In a place full of Dumbledore's followers, manipulation may be the only true weapon I have."

His father stared him down, his cold eyes taking on a calculating glint. No doubt he was thinking of how the files could be used against him. Fortunately, Lucius was unable to see how it would negatively affect him to hand them over. "Very well Draco, you may have them. If you are done eating, you may go back to your room and wait for me to summon you to my office." Nodding and suppressing a sigh of honest relief, Draco stood up to leave, his plate of food untouched.

"And Draco?"

Freezing as his father gripped his arm, Draco slowly turned around. "If I find out that you have been lying to me, you will find your punishment to be very… unpleasant." When his father let go of his arm, he began to walk up the stairs, careful to not look like he was escaping.

"What ever do you think I have to lie about, Father?"

Two hours later, Draco sat on the floor of his bedroom, staring in horror at the four large stacks of files before him. This _had _seemed like a much better idea in theory, but now he realized it was going to be a lot harder than he'd anticipated. Damn near impossible actually.

How was he going to go through all this in a few days? He knew there was only about a week or two left before he was to be initiated. When he collected the files from his father's study, Lucius had warned Draco not to _embarrass_ him in front of the Dark Lord. Apparently, Draco was to meet the Dark Lord very soon. He'd asked when, but that was a big mistake.

Wincing as he felt a sharp pain near his ribs, Draco realized it had been a very stupid mistake.

Panic once again began to set in. He didn't have enough _time._ How on earth was he supposed to find himself at least one person to ally himself with? He was going to die before he had a chance to act out the bloody plan!

No, he wouldn't go out like some pathetic weakling!

Giving himself a mental shake, Draco took a calming breath, centering his thoughts and emotions. Getting hysterical would only spawn irrationality, and Draco refused to let his father or Voldemort get the best of him. He wasn't sure where he should start, so figured it was best to reinforce the things he already knew.

He was well aware where everyone's loyalty in Slytherin lay. As much as he detested it, he had to admit that no one in his own house was worth trusting. Contrary to _very _popular belief, not everyone in Slytherin supported Voldemort as a rule, but Draco knew his housemates well enough to know that they would support the winning side.

At the current time, that side seemed to be Voldemort's. Slytherins were not evil exactly, but their ambition and desire to succeed often manifested in negative ways – considering that most of them had been raised with the moral and ethical code of Death Eaters, and it was more than apparent why Slytherins turned towards the Dark Lord. His fellow Slytherins were only interested in saving their own skin and believed in Voldemort's cause, if not in the man himself. The biggest mistake his classmates were making, however, was entertaining the notion that Voldemort gave even the slightest care about whether or not they died in his service.

Idiots. Pure blood wouldn't protect them from Azkaban.

All this being true, he would be delusional to try and contact anyone in Slytherin, unless he wanted to be killed sooner then expected.

So that left the students of Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and _Gryffindor_. _Lovely._

Ravenclaws actually weren't that dreadful; Draco himself would probably have ended up in the house if it weren't for one specific quality. He possessed a backbone.

The major problem with Ravenclaws was that it was full of a bunch of highly intelligent cowards. Oh, sure, they were all incredibly smart, but they lacked the nerve and ambition to do anything with that information. Ravenclaws believed in obtaining knowledge for the sake of knowledge – and were especially stingy with their findings.

What was the point of knowing all the secrets of the universe if one never used them to their advantage? Also, Ravenclaws felt the need to live life as if there was a special manual it – as if all the answer could be found in a book. Draco needed an ally that wasn't scared of the shadows and didn't need a tutorial on how to live their life. Some things needed to be done on impromptu, using natural wit, not book smarts.

Fearing he sounded like a Gryffindor, Draco abandoned that train of thought rather quickly.

Hufflepuffs… there was enough wrong with them that Draco didn't even want to touch the subject. While it was true that they were especially loyal and hardworking (good qualities in any ally) these qualities were often rooted in deep-set insecurities. Nearly everyone in Hufflepuff had extremely low self-esteem, and Draco needed someone who was confident in their abilities – not someone who needed a boss. He had enough problems on his own without some pathetic sod adding to them.

It pained him to admit that if he were to find an alley that wasn't in Ravenclaw, it would probably be a Gryffindor. Don't be mistaken, Draco _abhorred_ Gryffindors, with their high and mighty morals, rash behavior, and overall bigotry... but there were one decent quality attributed to them. No Gryffindor Draco had ever met had been without ambition. No matter how idiotic and misinformed they were, ambitions were the one thing Gryffindors were never without. Even Weasel, the dim-witted goon, had ambitions. Hanging out with Potter, in fact, was only to aid these aspirations.

He didn't feel like dealing with them yet, however. With a goal in his mind, Draco began to look through the towering Ravenclaw stack.

It had been a full day, and not much progress had been made. Draco finished the Ravenclaw files and was cursing every major deity that crossed to mind. Draco had started rather optimistically, choosing to look at the files of the upper years only. Anyone below Fifth Year would be of no use to him – he wasn't into babysitting some whining brat.

He had thought himself lucky once he realized the files were self-updating, but Draco soon ran into another dilemma. After looking through the daunting stack, Draco had found a total of nine students that he could consider involving in his plans. Seven of which had _already graduated. _Apparently, even though the files of the students were updated, one of the duties of the school governor was to clear out any student's file that had left the school. A duty that Lucius had obviously neglected.

The other two had promise, but one thing or another made them unsuitable for any type of partnership with him.

David Cromer, a Sixth Year, was clever, ambitious, and self serving. He was considered a major choice for Head Boy, even though he seemed to have no loyalty towards Dumbledore whatsoever. More importantly David had no reason to harbor any loyalty to Voldemort. Unfortunately, since his mother was mentally ill and his father nowhere to be found, David found himself taking care of three younger siblings, all of which who had already started Hogwarts. From what Draco could tell, he was very loyal to his family. It was doubtful that he would risk his life in such a manner and risk leaving his dependent family to fend for themselves.

Bye, bye Cromer.

Decora Melsa, a Fifth Year, was also a very clever, shrewd Ravenclaw. She harbored a great dislike for Dumbledore due to the fact that she was distantly related to Moaning Myrtle and blamed Dumbledore for the girl's death. Apparently, Melsa's entire family held a grudge against Dumbledore because they viewed him to be incompetent and unable to do his job with efficiency. Even though he hadn't been headmaster at the time, everyone was well aware that Dumbledore and not Headmaster Diggle, had power at the school.

But, alas, her parents had been tortured and killed during the First War by none other than Lucius Malfoy. Of course, pleading to be under the Imperious and giving hefty donations to the Ministry prevented his father from going to Azkaban, but Draco seriously doubted Melsa would want anything to do with him.

He supposed it was time to go his last resort.

Three hours of looking at Gryffindor files and five cups of coffee later, Draco was feeling sufficiently disgusted. The only thing he'd found out so far was that the Gryffindors were further under Dumbledore's wizened thumb than Draco thought possible.

Honestly, did they even have _common sense_?

Draco had skipped a few of the fifth years that Draco had known were out of the question before pausing at Granger's file. He really did hate the buck tooth, bushy haired, bitchy know-it-all – but she was extremely intelligent, not to mention shrewd. But her lack of magical ability and overall disposition made it impossible for Draco to consider her. It had taken all his carefully honed self control to not curse her halfway to Tibet when she slapped him in third year. That stupid, stupid _mudblood_. All she cared about were classes and examinations. Didn't she realize that in the_ real _world, it didn't matter how good you did in Defense Against the Dark Arts if you had no spontaneity. If you didn't have the power to back up the brains, you didn't have _anything_.

Thinking of Granger made him think of her little lapdog, Weasley, and he shuddered in repulsion. If there was anyone who was stupider than the gangly red-head, Draco had yet to meet them. Honestly, there were rocks that had more brains than the Weasel – the wizard who used his fists better and with more frequency then his wand. He absolutely _hated_ – Draco decided to think of something else before he got too irritated and worked up to carry on.

He passed up Parvati Patil... and came across Harry Potter.

Rolling his eyes, Draco corrected himself. There _was_ someone dumber than Weasley. How Potter could believe every hypocritical word that came out of Dumbledore's mouth was beyond him. It was as if the Golden Boy was incapable of independent thought. Potter looked at Weasley and Granger as if the sun shined out of their arses, when it was quite obvious that they were just using his fame to their advantage. He wondered if Potter even realized that the Wizarding World had made him to be the perfect scapegoat. Oh, they absolutely worshipped him _now_, the perfect little boy that had saved them all. But as soon as Voldemort made his rise back to power known and people begin to die, the entirety of the Wizarding World would be looking for him to kill the Dark Lord – gods forbid if he wasn't able.

Draco almost felt sorry for Potter.

Scar Face was being manipulated shamelessly, and unless he wised up, he would continue to be the perfect tool. It was quite sad, really. Potter was as magically powerful as Draco himself and if the brat would just come around to Draco's way of thinking they could be an unstoppable team...

Draco snickered at the absurdity of his thoughts.

As if that could _ever _happen. Potter had his head in the sand – it would take shovels Draco didn't have to dig him out.

TBC


	3. And Then I Awoke

**Author**: Angeleus

**Fandom**: Harry Potter  
**  
Rating**: R (Adult)

**Genre**: Romance, Drama, Angst, H/C

**Pairing**: Harry/Draco

**Warnings**: Language, Anal, Explicit Torture, Disturbing imagery.

**Summary**: Who was Tom Riddle, again? Only the Dark Lord knows... Dark secrets are just waiting to be revealed, changing the lives of those affected. An epic filled with a dark Harry, demonic spirits, and a new definition of evil awaits. HP/DM Rewritten and revamped

**Disclaimer**: In no way shape or form do I own any portion of the Harry Potter Universe. I am not making any profit from this fanfiction.

**Author's Note: **So, I hit a few road blocks regarding the revision of this fic. Time being the most prevalent of them. Sorry for the super long hiatus. But I should have a bit more free time to write and I'm looking forward to writing new material for this story. And for those of you who may be interested, the latest chapter from Where Lies Will Not Blossom should be up soon.

Well, on with the show!

**Chapter Three: **And Then I Awoke

As Harry stepped through the threshold to Diagon Alley, he couldn't help but think about the last time he had been there. He remembered all the care-free hours of eating ice-cream, picking out school supplies with Hermione, and drooling at the latest quidditch display with Ron. Those days seemed so far away now. The years of easily believing every lie his friends spouted – the naïve belief about the inherent goodness of the Light side.

He'd been no small fool.

But things were different now. He was. He realized that the Wizarding World was multi-faceted, like a carved gemstone. Harry understood that, as clichéd as it sounded, one couldn't judge a book by its cover or a classmate by the crest on their robes. And these changes in perspective would help him to do what was necessary to keep himself alive without depending on the likes of Dumbledore.

Right?

While it was refreshing to see the world for what it truly was, how did that really make a difference? He was still in the same boat as before. Harry was little more than a scared boy with limited knowledge of the Magical World, still lost, still without allies.

Well, not completely without allies. He had Sirius he supposed, but did he really want to involve his fugitive, and often rash, godfather into anything that would put him in any more danger? Not really. The man would jump off of a bridge and move mountains for him, but that didn't mean Harry wanted him to.

Plus there was the fact that the man probably believed he owed some misguided loyalty to Dumbledore. Harry was perfectly aware that after explaining how he'd been manipulated all this years, Sirius would see the truth behind his mentor. But the first thing his godfather would do was immediately have a confrontation with the Headmaster and accuse him of wrongdoing. Harry couldn't explain all the ways that would backfire.

Professor Lupin was also someone Harry could trust, but his dependability was sadly hindered. First off, Remus held plenty of loyalty to Sirius and would be reluctant to keep any secrets from him. Then there was the fact that Remus would always need a safe place for his monthly transformations and Harry wouldn't be able to provide that. Unless he took the Wolfsbane Potion, but only a select percentage of Potion Masters had the skill to make the potion – and it was extremely expensive. While Harry could cover the price, the only person he knew that could make the potion was Snape, and Harry wasn't sure how devoted the man was to Dumbledore. The last thing he needed was for Dumbledore to become suspicious when Remus was suddenly able to afford Wolfsbane every month.

Then, there was the last reason why Harry was reluctant to tell anyone he trusted of his rebellious thoughts.

People around him tended to die. As bad as that sounded, it wasn't necessarily a depressing thought. Not really. It was simply the truth. Harry had felt more than his share of guilt after Cedric's untimely murder, but he came to terms with it a few weeks ago. It wasn't callousness on his part – while he was saddened that Cedric's life had been taken so cruelly, there was no point in blaming himself for events beyond his control.

It wasn't as if he had raised his wand and said the deadly words that often haunted his nightmares: 'Kill the spare.' Harry had been there, the unfortunate witness of a cold-blooded murder. He wasn't going to delude himself and think that there was anything he could have done to stop it. Voldemort was perhaps the most powerful Dark Wizard in six hundred years. Harry was just a boy, not matter how Britain wanted to make him their glorified savior.

And, had not Cedric grabbed the Portkey with him, of his own will? Hadn't Harry intended to share the title of Tri-Wizard Champion with his classmate? A series of mutual decisions lead Cedric to the graveyard that night. And although Harry didn't think Cedric was to blame, he had put himself in danger just by participating in the Tournament.

And besides, being a grief stricken, guilty little Gryffindor was exactly how Dumbledore wanted him. Ripe for the manipulating. Harry didn't put it beneath Dumbledore to use his grief as a means of control. It had certainly worked on Remus, and even Sirius to an extent.

Harry turned to the right and entered Gringotts, sighing in relief as the coolness of the building seeped through his clothes. Had he been outside any longer, he might have been in danger of bursting into flames. Unsure of what to do at first, Harry stepped in line to speak with a goblin (he'd never really dealt with his finances alone). Harry also made sure that his dark hood covered his face.

He knew he was acting a bit paranoid, that he shouldn't worry so much, but he was well aware of the fact that Dumbledore had spies everywhere. Even here.

Harry was just grateful for the fact that goblins didn't usually associate with wizards, and therefore were less likely to report back to Dumbledore if anything was withdrawn from his account. That wasn't to say, however, that the wizard hadn't found a way to entice even the most taciturn goblins.

The long line seemed to move at an extraordinary pace, and before Harry knew it, it was time for him to speak to the goblin. The name tag declared him to be 'Grafspur.' Feeling a bit out of place and foolish, Harry said, "I need to withdraw some Wizarding money and exchange it for Muggle money. And I need it to be confidential."

Grafspur gave Harry a highly affronted look before replying. "We at Gringotts bank do not make a habit of releasing confidential information that is only privy to the owner of the account and/or the supervisor."

Harry rolled his eyes at the not so polite attitude. "I already knew that, I just meant that I wanted—wait, supervisor?"

Sticking his nose in the air and huffing a bit, the goblin said, "The supervisor of the account. The person that controls it and is informed of any change in the account. Ring any bells, _sir_?"

Harry froze. He'd never heard of such a thing, always assuming that the only person that controlled an account would be the owner of it. He groaned under his breath. Dumbledore wouldn't… would he? Of course he would. This was just lovely!

"And… these supervisors, can they be, I dunno, canceled or something?" Harry preyed they could be. Otherwise he was screwed. Completely. Dumbledore would immediately see something odd with the fact that he was withdrawing and transferring such a large amount of money. Especially during the summer.

Grafspur was obviously irritated with Harry's ignorance of bank policy, as shown when his pointy features became even more pinched. "I believe you mean termination of the supervisor's influence over the account? Supervisors are usually only for underage children and are not mandatory. They are only mandatory if the child has not yet entered magical education. Do you wish to terminate the supervisor over your account?"

Harry's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "I never told you I was in school or that I had a supervisor."

To Harry's surprise the goblin merely rolled his eyes. "Any fool could guess it was the case. Your obvious inexperience towards this bank and the way you reacted after I mentioned supervisors all point to it. Either tell me what you want to do with your account or _go way_. I am sure there are other… _well informed_ bank members I could service."

Resisting the desire to curse Grafspur, Harry sighed deeply. "I want to terminate the supervisor over my account."

"Your name?"

He hesitated only a moment, knowing that the goblin's patience was already running thin. "Harry Potter."

The next half-hour was spent putting his account in order and withdrawing the money need for the next two months. It was surprising how much muggle money could come from just a hundred galleons. He was completely blow away by the fact that he had almost one hundred thousand converted into his bank account. It made Harry wonder if the Weasleys would be considered wealthy if they converted their galleons to pounds.

He supposed that wizards thought so little of Muggles that their odd paper money almost seemed worthless. Harry took some of the muggle money out of his account so that he wouldn't starve for the rest of the summer. He was pretty sure that he even had enough to get a new wardrobe as well as buy every other thing his heart desired.

As Harry was about to walk out of Diagon Alley, he noticed a familiar sign that caused him to stop. Knockturn Alley. He wondered about all the information he could find... all the books... the weapons, the potions... They could help him deal with the coming war as well aid him in stopping Voldemort.

Harry stopped himself just as he was about to walk into the shadowed alley. He couldn't go in there, not yet. Even though he was disguised, it wasn't nearly as clever enough to fool any Death Eaters that might come across his path. Harry shuddered at the thought of meeting Lucius Malfoy in one of the macabre shops. He knew that meeting wouldn't end well, especially since he knew the elder Malfoy was waiting to repay him for releasing Dobby.

Besides, before he began to dabble in any type of magic, he needed to understand the magic that he was currently practicing. The basics. Harry grimaced as he thought of all the years he'd scraped by in classes, never studying, just hoping he would get the spell right. None of it had mattered to him, but now that just wouldn't cut it. Not at all.

Harry walked into The Leaky Cauldron and sat in a darkened corner, thinking deeply to himself. He wasn't nearly powerful enough to take on Voldemort, hell he wasn't even powerful enough to take on most of the Death Eaters! The notion of dueling the shadowed individuals who'd watched on as he was tortured made him shudder. Harry wasn't just a war with Voldemort, he was at war with all of his followers as well. And, there was no way he would be able to take on them alone.

It was more than one individual, even the likes of Dumbledore, could conceive doing.

He needed help. That much was obvious. Quickly going over the mental list in his head, Harry once again came to the conclusion that he had no one to depend on for the moment. No true allies that would or could stand with him in the immediate future.

Well, this certainly was becoming a depressing trip. So much for his day out on the town.

There was absolutely no one that he knew of that would even be able to face off with his enemies without pissing in their pants. Not anyone that he could call on, at least. He wondered about all of the Death Eaters' children, if they really supported Voldemort or if they were simply just wanted to live. He wondered if anyone of them might even consider not following in their parents' footsteps, or if they were truly brainwashed.

But he doubted that. They were just children after all; they were all just scared, pathetic children. Even though many people were biased against the Slytherin's, most of them truly were a bunch of arrogant and cowardly gits who relied on money more than wit or talent.

Except for Malfoy, maybe. Despite being the most obnoxious and arrogant Slytherin, he was a scrappy little bastard. Harry'd felt it every time they fought; the raw energy that coursed under the other boy's skin – power than couldn't be bought by shiny coins. And although he'd loath to admit it, the blond boy was second only to Hermione in many classes. Without the biases, he could probably be at the top, considering his stellar performance on practical exams. He had the magical strength Hermione lacked, despite being a spoiled jerk.

Malfoy had the potential to become a very powerful wizard, one whose talents would be of great use to Harry. They could be great together, if only Malfoy would come around to his way of thinking.

Harry almost laughed at the absurdity of that one thought. As if something that improbable could ever come to be. Malfoy was so far up his father's arse that Harry scarcely thought that he'd be able to find his way out, even with the help of others.

But it was a nice thought.

**xXxXxXx**

Draco paced silently across his room with the grace of the cat, albeit a nervous one. He was at a lost at what his next course of action should. His 'brilliant' plan didn't work out exactly how he wanted it to. It was becoming more and more impossible by the second. But that was his life in a nutshell, _nothing_ went the way he wanted it to. He didn't want to die, but obviously the gods didn't ask for his opinion when they decided to kill him off.

Draco sighed. Idiotic and self-pitying thoughts like that weren't going to help any. He still had no allies and no way to get out of the Manor. Although Lucius had never said that Draco was confined to the house, it was implied. Three days had passed since his father hinted that he would soon be meeting the Dark Lord. It made him wonder how many days he had left before he would be Called. Only a hand full, surely.

Suddenly feeling weak and defeated, Draco sat down on the floor and stared at the floor dejectedly. He wouldn't give up; he just couldn't. But he was honestly at a lost of what to do.

Draco sighed tiredly. He hadn't had a good night's sleep in nearly three days. Maybe if he got some rest, things would be put into perspective. Plus, not resting would only leave him more liable to make mistakes, and Draco needed his wits about him. But Draco also felt that if he slept, he was wasting the little time he had to figure out how to get out of this mess. And that left a hard, painful ball in his stomach, even as he decided to give into the pleading of his tired body.

He headed over to his bed before sparing a look over his room. It was a mess, really. The floor was so littered with papers that the normally dark red carpet looked white with glimpses of crimson here and there. Funny; that was how his skin looked after a 'session' with Daddy dearest. The room had absolutely no organization, which struck Draco as strange because his room was usually completely spotless. Neatness was a must usually, but it would mean little if he was dead in a few days. So, yes, cleanliness wasn't very important at the moment.

Laying down and closing his eyes, Draco felt a sense of helplessness come over him. He hated being helpless more than anything else. It was a feeling for the weak, for those who were unable to control their own fate. But didn't that describe Draco in most ways? He was barely fifteen, a child, and he was trying to escape from servitude under the most powerful Dark Lord in centuries—perhaps ever. Was there even any hope? Was he doing all of this for nothing? Maybe he should stop this pathetic ruse of a rebellion and just try to enjoy his last few days on earth.

No. He couldn't allow it. Wouldn't allow it. He refused to give up. But for now, he would sleep. Things would be better in the morning. Right?

Blinking back tears, he fell into a restless sleep with no idea what his dreams had in store for him.

_Draco's first impression of the place was that it was rather dreary. He was in some sort of rectangular rose garden and the sun was out. A graveled dirt path was cleared out on front of him and an ornate stone bench lay close to where he was standing. It actually might have been a beautiful and cheerful scene if everything had been the proper shade._

_The roses were a dark, bruised purple with black thorns that extended threateningly from the pale blue stems; the thick grass was also a pale blue. The sky was a deep, dark gray that spoke of storms to come, though there were no clouds. It was as if the heavens were filled with charcoal ash that completely blocked out any blue pigment. And the sun was even more frightening._

_The sun was a startling black circle high above that might have been able to blend in with the sky if it were not for the shimmering green light that pulsed out of it like some sort of foreign energy. Draco shivered, more than a bit disturbed by his surroundings._

Isn't this just wonderful_, Draco thought. _Even when I try to escape for a few hours, I still end up in a nightmare.

"_Do you come here often?" Draco jumped and turned around quickly, cursing at the fact he'd inadvertently let his guard down. A few feet away on a bench sat a boy only a few years older than himself. He couldn't be more than nineteen. The stranger had dark hair that was parted neatly on the side in a way that was no longer in style and a surprisingly handsome face. And although he was sitting, Draco could tell he was quite tall. But his most striking feature was his deep blue eyes that glimmered with intelligence and hinted at some innate power._

_The boy was smiling and had pleasant expression, but Draco knew not be fooled. He'd seen the same pleasant expression grace his father's face as Draco was Crucio-ed for some imagined slight._

_But Draco supposed the polite thing to do would be to answer. "No, not really." He refrained for asking any questions for the moment, wondering what the strange boy would reveal on his own. The boy's smile got wider, now starting to resemble a shark-like grin – like a predator getting ready to feast._

"_I thought so. After all, I've been here so long that I'm sure I would have noticed you."_

_A long silence followed, one that Draco was reluctant to break. To speak first would be admitting weakness, but the other boy waited patiently, seemingly unbothered by the choking stillness of the air. Finally, the blond resigned, far too curious to stay quiet. "Do you come here often?"_

_The stranger's smile seemed slightly strained now, and Draco wondered if he should be bracing for an attack. "One could say that, I suppose. Seeing as I never leave." _

_And if that wasn't one of the creepiest things he'd ever heard._

_Sill on guard, Draco nodded slowly and said, "Is this place… enjoyable to you?" Looking back, that obviously wasn't the best thing to say, as the boy's smile disappeared suddenly. A rather murderous expression took its place. _

_Standing up and clenching his hands in to fist, the dark-haired boy began to speak once more. "Does this __look__ like a place anyone could grow to like? This place, it is hell!"_

_His voice echoed loudly, so loud that it made Draco cringe. Perhaps it was because he still thought this was a dream, but Draco suddenly felt like throwing caution to the proverbial wind. Feeling quite daring, Draco stepped forward and asked, "Then what's keeping you here? Why don't you go if you abhor being here?"_

_The boy no longer looked angry; his eyes shined with unshed tears. Suddenly, he looked very lonely and small even though he was much bigger than Draco himself. It such a quick change in demeanor that it nearly threw Draco for a loop. But the blond still didn't drop his guard. Something… odd was going on here. This was no normal dream._

"_B-Because I'm trapped here. Obviously." His voice shook slightly and his eyes hardened. Walking until there were mere inches between them, he snarled. "Did he send you here? He did, didn't he? Trying to keep me in check, forgotten in this corner of Hades? Does the bastard think because you're so much younger than any one of his lapdogs that were sent here, that I won't kill you? I will, I swear I will! I'll kill you just like all of the others."_

Others?_ Eyes wide, Draco stumbled back. This boy was obviously barking mad, speaking of killing as if it were some chore._

_Dark energy crackled around the dark-haired boy like electricity as he withdrew his wand from the folds of his robes. Patting himself quickly, Draco confirmed his fears. He was unarmed._

_Draco also realized that if he didn't do something soon that he'd be deader than the Bloody Baron. "I don't know what you're talking about! W-Who is he?" _

_The other boy stopped advancing for a moment before smiling as though he'd heard an amusing joke. "Don't play dumb. Your life is numbered in the seconds; don't waste the little time keeping up this pathetic façade."_

_Suddenly, at a most inopportune time, Draco's notorious temper rose. The temper that sent him chasing after that idiot Potter. The temper that allowed him to keep spiting vitriol at Lucius as his father punished him. The temper that made everything but his anger insignificant. This boy was preparing to kill him because he __thought__ he was in league with someone that Draco didn't even know? He didn't even know what the hell this boy was talking about! He wasn't even sure how he got into this damnable place!_

"_I have no bloody clue what you are going on about! I don't know who this mysterious 'he' is; in fact I couldn't even be paid to care. I don't even know how I got here, in this demon's rose garden and now I have to put up with your paranoid delusions. And your quaint threats on my life do little to intimidate me. You want to murder me for some imagined slight? Go right ahead! At least I know you'll make it quick, if you can even do it properly in the first place. I doubt Lord Voldemort will be that courteous!"_

_And maybe the stress was getting to Draco a little bit. Not that he would admit it. _

_The boy lowered his wand slightly, which had been pointed at Draco's chest, with an unreadable expression on his face. "Lord Voldemort?"_

_Draco sneered in disgust. "Yes, Voldemort," He snapped. "Skeletal, red eyes, Dark Lord, might have seen him around –"_

"_I know who he is!" With a sudden start, Draco realized this boy's eyes were red as well. He could have sworn they were blue a moment ago. Was this merely his subconscious speaking, or was something more sinister afoot? "You claim not to be in league with him? How else could you find your way here? I find it hard to believe your story," the red-eyed boy drawled. He still looked raged, but he was no longer pointing his wand at Draco. That, at least, was a good sign._

"_I'll take it that this 'he' you speak of is Voldemort?"_

"_Yes." said the boy, giving Draco a rather calculating look that set off all of his Slytherin warning bells. Before he had a chance to react, the dark-haired boy shouted a spell Draco had never heard before. It sounded almost Gaelic in origin. The power of it slammed him into the nearest rose bush, where sharp thorns dug into his skin and made him wince. Stunned for a moment, Draco couldn't dreg up the energy to pull himself from the bush, but he tried to push himself up, wincing as the thorns torn into the delicate skin of his palms. Almost immediately, arms reached out to pull him up. Scrambling away from the hands, Draco stood up and stumbled, putting a few feet between him and the dark-haired boy._

_The only thing that kept Draco from running was the fact that he didn't want to turn his back on this lunatic. What would the boy do next? Really kill him?_

_What the stranger said next was even more confusing. "I am… sorry. I know you are telling the truth, now." Was it just Draco's imagination, or did the boy look remorseful? The expression did look quite chagrined, but also a bit strained, as if the boy wasn't used to having the expression grace his face. _

"_You blast me into next year, __then __decide that I must be telling the truth," Draco asked in disbelief. This was either a trick or the boy was truly out of his mind. Draco voted on the latter. Not that either of the hypotheses helped him in any way._

_Grimacing when he felt where the thorns had torn into his limbs, Draco waited for the other boy to offer up some sort of explanation for his behavior. And he was more than ready to dodge another spell. He wouldn't be caught off guard again. If only he had his wand… "That spell would have incinerated you if you had been lying. I assumed you were a Death Eater, and had no choice but to seek proof of your innocence. But I see now that I was mistaken. If you come closer, I will heal your cuts."_

_Draco raised an eyebrow before saying, "And why, exactly, should I believe you? I'm not coming any closer while you are armed. I'd rather suffer the scrapes, thanks."_

_Sighing before rolling his eyes, the boy lay down his wand on a bench before walking towards Draco, his hands up showing that he meant no harm. However, Draco was still wary as he knew that the boy could probably best him physically._

"_Did Voldemort trap you here with that damned dimension spell as well?" Although the boy seemed convinced of his 'innocence,' he looked at Draco suspiciously as he said this._

_Not sure what to make of the entire ordeal, Draco shook his head slowly. "I don't think so, as the last thing I remember was going to sleep. I don't know how I got here, or even where 'here' is. Why did he trap you?"_

"_He had his reasons," was the boy's cryptic response._

_Draco was so close to the boy he could almost touch him. He saw the hidden desperation and fear in his eyes. Draco recognized the look because he saw it every time he looked in the mirror. But was the expression true? Was this boy really an adversary of Voldemort, such a threat that he had to be trapped in some nightmare world? If that was the case… _

_That's when Draco realized something. This boy wanted a way out of here, Draco needed an ally… Not that he yet trusted this boy in any form of the word. But perhaps he could use him. "You want to get out of here right? You tell me why he trapped you here and I'll help you."_

"_How do you now you're not trapped here as well?"_

"_You said you were put here by a spell, no spell was put on me."_

_The boy seemed to consider before answering. "What would you get out of helping me? No one does anything unless it benefits them."_

_Draco smirked. He was dealing with a Slytherin, obvious. That made things so much easier—and more difficult. "Well, you see… I have a slight… actually rather large, problem."_

_Understanding dawned in the boy's eyes. "And you think I could help you with this problem?"_

"_Of course."_

"_And your problem would be?"_

_Draco stared into the boy's… blue? eyes before smirking again. "Tell me why you're here."_

_The boy's eyes flickered and he growled. "Let's just say that Voldemort saw me as a threat against him."_

"_You were on the Light side?"_

_Draco watched in fascination as the boy's lip curled in disgust. "Not quite. Your big problem…"_

"_Do not think that I truly considered that to be a valid answer. 'Voldemort saw you as a threat.' Do not presume to be so vague and think that I will suffer it. But I fear to retribution in telling you that I need someone to help me stand up against Voldemort," Draco said boldly._

_The dark-haired boy laughed. "And why would you choose to do something so foolish?"_

"_Don't really have a choice."_

_The boy smiled suddenly, something that was both attractive and frightening. "If you get me out of here, I'll help you __defeat__ Him."_

Someone's overconfident… But an overconfident possible ally beat no ally at all_. "Would you be willing to take a blood oath to keep that promise?" Draco wasn't about to jump into an agreement with someone that he barely knew without a bit of… insurance._

"_You're smart for someone so young." The boy was staring at him in a way that made him uncomfortable, as if the boy could look into his eyes and read his soul. Knowing that someone might be able to read him so well was disconcerting. _

"_I'm not as young as you think."_

"_I suppose not. What's your name, boy?" Draco thought it was a bit rich for someone only a few years older than him to call him boy. But then again, there was no telling how long he had been here. For all he knew, this 'boy' was older than Voldemort._

"_Draco."_

"_A dragon, are you? I'll put that to the test. And I didn't quite catch your surname."_

_Frowning Draco said, "That's because I didn't offer it. And just so we are in understanding of one another, I am in no way, shape, or form your inferior in any type of __partnership __we may enter in the future. And you still haven't told me you name, Stranger."_

_The boy smiled again, but this time it looked more like a grimace. The silence that greeted Draco after enquiring the other boy's name was so quick and absolute that he feared he might never get an answer when the strange boy spoke up quietly. _

"_Tom… Riddle."_

Draco awoke with a start, frozen in shock for a moment before he began to shake, unable to stop his body from shuddering. _Tom Riddle. How is that even possible?_ That boy, he was, why he was Voldemort! It didn't make any sense! Why would Voldemort want to kill himself?

Claming down a bit, Draco realized was probably just a very strange dream. He had been thinking about Voldemort, as well as finding an ally; his thoughts must have manifested themselves into a hellish nightmare, one that was making less and less sense as he began to shake off the clutches of sleep. Yes, that was it. Nothing to worry about—except for his rather messy psyche for creating such a dream.

But.

The stinging pain.

Why was he feeling pain? Looking down at himself, Draco nearly cried out when he saw all the bloody rips in his pajamas and the cuts that lay beneath. Those marks, they were the same as those he received in the dream from those bloody rose bushes. And Draco was well aware that dreams couldn't hurt you— at least not physically.

Which only led to one conclusion.

That it was no dream.

TBC


End file.
